Exacting Justice

by TG Wolff

  “Is there a serial killer loose in my city, Detective?”

  Cruz stood at attention, feeling the weight of his chief’s authority. “We have two men killed, their heads severed and mounted on posts in public locations. Both victims had arrests for drugs—one for selling, the other for using. While it would be hard to argue the killings are not related, it is not definitive if they are serial.”

  Ramsey was a dark skinned black man with equally dark eyes set in flawless white marble. His wide face was proportionate to his six-foot-five frame. The high cheekbones and thick brows made the highly-educated, highly-decorated chief of police a man no one wanted to cross. “You’re opinion, Doctor?”

  Dr. Ming Chen, MD, PhD served as the department’s resident expert in psychiatry and psychology. The Chinese-American embodied the stereotypical Asian—average height, slim build, earth brown eyes, straight as a pin black hair, but when he opened his mouth, Virginia poured out. Manassas, Virginia, where he’d been born nearly sixty years prior. “I have reviewed the case files for both Alvin Hall and Mathias Jose Martinez, Chief. We are nearly certain Martinez suffocated. The cause of death for Hall is less clear. The blunt force trauma caused by vehicular contact certainly could kill. But did it? We don’t know. Hall’s head was what I’ll call ‘fresh’ while Martinez was kept on ice for a time, hindering the estimate of the time of death. Neither head showed sign of abuse—”

  “Aside from Hall’s road rash, Martinez’s blue lips, and the heads being detached from the rest of the body,” Chief Ramsey said.

  Chen nodded his acquiescence. “I meant that the faces had not be struck, beaten. When the motivation is hate or anger, it is not uncommon to see violent damage done to the face. It’s personal. The heads were taken with a sharp, smooth blade. I wouldn’t go as far to say it was clinical, but it was…oh, what word am I looking for…”

  “Dispassionate?” the chief offered.

  “Excellent word. The crimes are vicious but dispassionate. That’s my best guess, with what little we have to work with.”

  “Yes,” the chief said, turning to Cruz. “Where are the bodies?”

  Word went out and all of the Cleveland police was looking for the bodies of Hall and Martinez. “I can tell you a hundred places they aren’t, sir.”

  “You had a man in custody after the first body.”

  “Yes, Christopher Parker. He was likely the last person to see Alvin Hall alive. They fought. Parker chased Hall. Parker said Hall was hit by a van. A gun was recovered. Parker’s prints were on it, but it hadn’t been discharged. A shoe was also recovered. Strands of hair found in the shoe were a match to Hall.”

  “Just one shoe?” the chief asked.

  “Just one. Blood on the street was confirmed as Hall’s. No other witnesses. No body. Parker’s prints were found in Hall’s home but not on the post used to mount the head. In fact, no prints were found at the crime scene. In the end, there just wasn’t the evidence to hold Parker.”

  “Are you considering him for Martinez?”

  “Yes. I’m waiting on the lab reports to come in. No prints were again found on the metal post, but there were boot impressions in the snow. I asked Detective Yablonski for support in looking for a connection between Hall, Parker, and Martinez.”

  The chief turned to Yablonski. “Have you found anything, Detective?”

  “We are still working on it, sir. We have a firm connection between Parker and Hall, as Detective De La Cruz indicated. Hall’s territory was getting squeezed by the expansion of the University Circle institutions and redevelopment of the old neighborhoods. Parker worked the Slavic Village and had a few boys working corners for him. He’s ambitious, wants to be seen as the boss. We noticed increased tensions since last summer. While Martinez’s arrest in December was for possession, he’d been on our radar for months. We suspect Martinez worked the west side—Lorain to Detroit—West Fiftieth to West Eighty-Fifth.”

  Cruz family’s church stood in the middle of Martinez’ territory. Sometimes the city was too damn small.

  Yablonski continued. “A woman overdosed in his bed. Her sister found them and called us before Martinez was sober enough to stop her. I was on the scene. The sister accused Martinez of murder. We arrested him, searched the apartment. The only blow we found was the leftovers from the night before. When interviewed by the prosecutor, the sister admitted the dead woman frequently used.”

  “All right, I see where this is going. Ms. Hyatt, how is the media playing this?”

  Alison Hyatt was the public information officer for the police department. The daughter of a career police officer, she began as a reporter and was persuaded to the other side of the microphone by her aunt, a councilwoman and staunch supporter of the Cleveland police. A slight, white woman in impeccable business attire, Alison was a skilled professional. “Hall’s story died fast. It was sensational for a day with the number of people seeing the head. Hall’s record with drugs and Mrs. Hall unwillingness to discuss the circumstances of her son’s death killed the story. With Martinez, the papers and television are pushing.”

  “Social media?” the chief asked.

  “Limited traffic so far. The weather and location weren’t favorable for selfies. Conventional media is Facebooking it but not many are biting. Martinez’s social circle hasn’t broken through although we haven’t confirmed his identification, pending notification of next of kin.”

  The chief’s gaze swung back to Cruz. “When?”

  “After this meeting, sir. We identified his sister, Mrs. Lydia Hernandez. I contacted Father Alejandro Ruiz of Sagrada Familia to accompany me.”

  “What happened to Pastor Michael Ashford?”

  “Nothing, sir. In fact, Pastor Mike was indispensable with the notification of Mrs. Hall. In my opinion, though, Father Alejandro is better suited in this situation.”

  The chief nodded once, accepting his detective’s judgment. “What is your workload like, Detective Yablonski?”

  Yablonski stood a little straighter. “Nothing I can’t handle, sir.”

  “Which means you’re overloaded. Well aren’t we all. I want you working this with De La Cruz. Narcotics and murder are often in bed together, but this has the potential to be explosive. De La Cruz? I want reports daily, sooner if developments warrant it. I’ll brief the mayor, notify the feds. Ms. Hyatt, schedule a press conference for five p.m. Detectives, Doctor, you will be in attendance.”

  Lydia Martinez Hernandez waitressed at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel on Public Square. Ordinarily, Cruz avoided going to places of work. The emotional fallout was best kept behind closed doors but sometimes, there wasn’t an option.

  He led Yablonski and Father Alejandro to the host stand and discretely showed his identification to the man behind the podium. “I need Mrs. Lydia Hernandez and a private place to talk.”

  The manager’s eyes grew wide. “If she’s in trouble, I need to know. We have standards—”

  “Lydia Hernandez and privacy.” Cruz’s tone brokered no debate.

  The manager stumbled away from the podium, and, forgetting his manners, called across the room to a shapely woman placing plates before guests.

  She turned, smiling as she looked to her manager, then her gaze drifted passed him, settling on Father Alejandro. The smile dropped from her lips. The plates fell from her hands. “My Uriel?”

  Cruz glared at the manager while the padre hurried to Mrs. Hernandez. “Your office. Now.”

  All eyes followed as they exited the dining room. In the small office, the padre seated Mrs. Hernandez in the only guest chair, squatted before her, and broke the news. He spoke in a hushed Spanish. Cruz understood every word of the message delivered on his behalf.

  Lydia Hernandez did not cry out. She simply fell back, boneless, drained. Silent tears rained down her face. “You are the police?”

  “This is Detective Matt Yablonski. I am Detective Jesus De La Cruz. Homicide.”

  “Mathias.” She whispered her brother’s name, cl
utching the priest’s hand. “How…how did he die?”

  “It is not official, but we suspect he died of asphyxiation.”

  Her brows pressed down. “Somebody strangled him?”

  “When was the last time you saw your brother?”

  “Saturday. December sixteenth. I brought him dinner from work and reminded him he promised to babysit on Wednesday while I went to the doctor. I’m pregnant. He never showed.” Tears poured rampantly down her face. “Was he dead? When I took my daughter to the appointment and called him every name in the book, was he dead?”

  Cruz kept his chin up. “There is a lot we don’t know. Did he ever mention a man named Parker?”

  “Did he kill my brother?”

  Cruz kept his face expressionless. “He’s a person of interest. Have you heard the name?”

  “No. Mathias’s job put him in contact with many people, but he seldom spoke about his customers.”

  Cruz glanced at Yablonski, who raised an eyebrow. “What did you brother do for a living?”

  “He’s an electronics salesman. You know, televisions, sound systems, speakers.”

  “Did you know he was arrested last month for drug possession?”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “I told him how stupid he was. Using drugs. And that poor girl. I told him if I ever found out he was using again he would never see his niece.”

  Her brother led a dual life. He was doing her a favor, he told himself, telling her before she heard it whispered or tweeted. “Your brother was suspected of dealing drugs.”

  “No. He was charged with a minor possession. He paid a fine. He made a stupid mistake, but he was not drug dealer. Is that it?”

  Cruz shook his head. “He was decapitated, Mrs. Hernandez. His head put on a post and planted on I-90. People saw it, Mrs. Hernandez. The media.”

  “That was…” Her gaze looking to each man in the room, hoping one would dispel the idea. “Where is the rest of him?”

  Using the key Mrs. Hernandez gave them, Cruz let crime scene into the apartment three floors up, behind a steel door that didn’t match the wood trim. Mathias Martinez liked modern flush with technology.

  “I see why she believed he was a salesman,” Cruz said, pointing to one of three game systems in a built-in entertainment center. “My nieces want that system for Christmas.”

  Yablonski snorted. “I want that system for Christmas.”

  “Did you put it on your Christmas list? Maybe nurse Erin will put one in your stocking.”

  There was more to admire in Martinez’s apartment than just the video games. There were the six wide screen televisions. The gaming computer. The top of the line appliances.

  What there wasn’t was the tools of the drug trade.

  “We need to find his other flop,” Yablonski said, pulling out his phone. “Let me see what I can do.”

  While Yablonski talked, Cruz walked. Across the hall, one floor down, he found Mr. Herman Wilde. Caucasian. Forty-five. IT tech at the cable company. He offered sympathy, support but no information.

  The first-floor apartment opened after a second knock, filling the hallway with the happy laughter of Mickey Mouse. Cruz held his ID up to a small blonde woman with a pony tail and a chocolate milk stain on her T-shirt. Adele McDonald, twenty-six, stay-at-home mom, had known something wasn’t right.

  “The last time I saw him was the day after his sister visited. I carried a load of laundry to the basement after dinner. Mathias was coming up. He took the basket and carried it down for me before he went out. Don’t tell my husband, but I had a little crush going on Mathias. He was always went out of his way to be nice.”

  Yablonski came down the steps, his heavy weight echoed like a herd of cattle. “Anything?”

  Cruz gave a short nod. “Mrs. McDonald, is this the door to the basement?”

  “Yes. Do you want to go down there? I can get my key.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am.”

  The basement was cold and worn, uncluttered and smelled like laundry detergent. Two sets of washers and driers sat at the end of a hallway formed by six small rooms. Each room had a wood door painted the same color as the floor with a bold number in white.

  “What are these?” Cruz asked.

  “Storage spaces. Each apartment comes with one. This one is ours,” she said, gesturing to the door with the “1” on it.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McDonald. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Oh. Uh, okay.” She stepped away self-consciously. “I guess you know where I am if you need me.”

  The detectives stayed put until they heard the door close.

  “Number six,” Yablonski said. The plywood door had a simple padlock. Yablonski pulled a small case from his inside pocket. “You aren’t seeing this.”

  Inside thirty seconds, the door swung opened to a clusterfuck of holiday junk. A pair of light-up deer stared back in surprise at the strangers in the doorway. A Christmas tree was shoved in a corner. A six-foot spider clung to a wall with a skeleton hanging next to it. Storage bins were labeled summer in a feminine scrawl.

  “Well shit,” Yablonski said. “That’s disappointing.

  “Wait a second. Look at this.” Cruz ran his fingers over the painted number. The shape of the number five could be seen behind the six. “This looks different than the others. And it’s out of order.”

  “You think he used some trickery?”

  Door five was solid wood, fitted with three locks. Beneath the five was the outline of a six. “One way to find out. Keep doing what I’m not seeing.”

  Yablonski knelt and got busy with tools too small for his sausage sized fingers.

  Cruz crossed his arms and watched his friend work. “I can call in some guys off the street if you need help.”

  “This isn’t as easy as it looks. Got one.”

  Yablonski was faster with the second one, but the third took nearly five minutes. Still, he stood with pride and opened the door. The room was the size of a jail cell, with cement block walls that went to the ceiling. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling with a pull chain. “Bingo.”

  The room was as compulsively neat and organized as the apartment. One side had a built-in workbench with cabinets above and below. The workbench was clean enough to eat off. Yablonski opened a pair of overhead cabinets. White bundles were stacked tightly together.

  Yablonski whistled long and low. “We have found the mother lode.”

  The other side of the room contained several full-size doors and three rows of cabinets. Cruz opened the doors that belonged on a kitchen pantry. “It’s a gun safe. You name it, it’s here.” The cabinets contained shelves with hand guns, knives, packaging supplies. Money.

  “Is that a grenade?” Yablonski asked.

  “Clear the building.”

  Sunday, December 24, 2:00 a.m.

  Cruz drove home, uncertain what day it was. There was always more to do than time to do it, especially at the holidays. He stayed on, working for Lydia Hernandez and Loretta Hall. If he could just figure it out the connection, he could get ahead of the game. He hadn’t figured it out, but his bones ached. His eyes burned. He desperately wanted the warming dumbness of whiskey in his belly, the solid comfort of a glass in his hand.

  He cut through the Steel Yards, a shopping center whose name was the only thing left of the storied history of iron on this part of the Cuyahoga River. Cruz pulled off the road and stopped. He couldn’t go home. He still could name ten bars in any directions of this place. He knew he wouldn’t make it passed them. Not in this condition.

  He pulled out his phone and brought up Bollier’s contact. All he had to do with press the button and help would be there.

  Feeling calmer, he rubbed his eyes. Knowing help was there was enough. He lifted his head and one of the big box stores glowed through the winter darkness, a beacon to his weary eyes. Suddenly, he knew why he was there.

  December 25

  Today hurts. I didn’t get a tree. I couldn’t. But I see t
he hole where it should have been. I feel it.

  I miss you. With every breath I take and every tear I cry and every part of me.

  I can’t take it.

  There’s no end to it? Am I going to be punished forever? Is this what hell is?

  My hell.

  My hell.

  Michael.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday, December 25

  “You cheated!” The video laughed at Cruz as loudly as the child next to him. To think he’d bought the damned thing.

  “Nuh-uh!” Rhianna danced in celebration. “I’m just better. It’s okay, ’cause I still love you. Let’s play again.”

  The oven timer buzzed. “Sorry, short stuff, that’s my cue. Play with your dad. You can kick his butt for a while.”

  The knife stilled in Mariana’s hand when he walked in the kitchen. “You shouldn’t let her win.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I did. I let her win.” He partially filled a stock pot with water for the potatoes Mari cut.

  “She has to learn how to lose graciously as well as win graciously.”

  “Mari, there is nothing gracious about how your daughters win. They are exactly like you.”

  His sister scowled and was about to defend herself when he raised an eyebrow. “Still. You don’t have to let her win.”

  “Mari. Look at me. I didn’t let her win. That snot bucket of a five-year-old kicked my ass at Sweet Kitty Battlemania. Dinner is about thirty minutes away. What time is everyone coming?”

  “Oh, any time now.” Mariana snickered.

  Something in her voice sent his trouble sensor to condition yellow. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Really, Tito, it’s nothing. Mama just—”

  Condition red. Condition red. “Oh no, Mari. Hell no.”

  “Mama says she’s lovely. She’s the nurse at her doctor’s office.”